


Better Expectations

by EntreNous



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e12 Expecting, Harm to Animals, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wes's Dad is a Bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-09
Updated: 2005-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes explains to Angel how he came to be such a good shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Schmangst-a-thon](http://www.livejournal.com/users/entrenous88/253506.html), written for cheesygirl. She wanted Wes/Angel, with the option of either/both physical or emotional hurt, early Wes, reference to Wesley's childhood, and hot and sweet kissing. Thanks to wesleysgirl for co-running this ficathon with me, and for taking a look at an early draft of this fic. The story takes place immediately after the warehouse scene in Ats s1 “Expecting”.

“There we are,” Wesley said in a soft voice as he gently smoothed the adhesive holding Angel’s bandage.

“Thanks,” Angel said gruffly. He watched Wes’ lips part as Wes focused on the area and then tapped his index finger against the corner of the tape, an unnecessary gesture of securing what was already firmly attached. “Think that’s all set,” he added, since Wes didn’t seem inclined to move from his position kneeling on the floor in front of the couch.

“Yes, of course,” Wes replied as he looked up into Angel’s eyes. “I’ll just . . .” He let the sentence trail off as he stood awkwardly in front of where he had seated Angel.

“I heal pretty quickly -- usually without bandages,” Angel said as he glanced down at Wes’ careful handiwork on his bare torso. “Probably don’t even need one for this.”

“Well, you were _shot_ ,” Wes said mildly. “Several times, in fact.” 

Though he had assumed an air of studied casualness Angel hadn’t missed the crestfallen expression that had flitted over Wes’ face first. “You’re right. Three times. This will definitely help,” he said in as firm a voice as possible.

Wes straightened almost imperceptibly. “I imagine we can’t have you healing rapidly enough. The sooner you’re able to resume your work protecting people, the safer this city will be.”

Angel said nothing for a moment while Wes replaced the ointments and gauze in the First Aid container that Cordy apparently now kept in his kitchen. And that Wes apparently knew the location of, since he’d found it so readily. 

“You were a good shot, hitting that tank, helping me to freeze the demon in his tracks,” Angel acknowledged finally. “If you hadn’t had such sure aim -- I wouldn’t have been able to save those women.”

“Well, we made a good team tonight,” Wes replied.

Angel touched his bandage lightly and wondered how to respond to that. After the business of tracking down Wilson Christopher and his demon-dealing friends at the shooting range and then dispatching of the monster that had impregnated Cordy and the others, Angel had wanted nothing more than to be alone.

But then Wes had insisted on coming back to his apartment and helping “fix you up,” as he had said. And somehow having him there, being fixed up, wasn’t as bad as Angel had thought it would be. Sure, he hadn’t been lying when he said the salves probably weren’t necessary, but Wes being here with him was . . . nice. Though in a way that made him anxious too -- it was nice, and he wasn’t sure how to keep it being nice, keep it from sliding into strained pauses and uncomfortable exchanges before Wes decided he had better go. Now that Wes was with him, Angel didn’t so much feel like being alone. 

So he was trying to keep it going -- and wasn’t this, the compliment to Wes, the type of thing he was supposed to say to people? It definitely sounded to his ears like the observations and thanks that Cordy and . . . that others had expected of him lately. Realizing those types of comments were wanted was a new thing, and figuring out how to deliver them was newer still. 

But apparently he’d done all right. When Wes turned back to face him, a faint flush coloring his expression, his smile was so pleased that it almost felt as though Angel’s skin could, impossibly, tinge a shade brighter in answer. He would have stopped there, just watching the blush bloom and fade on Wes’ cheeks, but he sensed this was one of those times he was supposed to say more, ask more, keep that talking thing going. So he asked, “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

But apparently he’d taken the wrong approach again, because Wes’ lips had thinned, tightening and swallowing his smile. 

“From my father,” Wesley replied finally. “He would take me -- our family had an estate -- to the fields. We kept a warren there, but there was little else in the way -- open land, blue skies, a few fences -- and he would make me practice target shooting or taking aim at various objects. Again and again, until I hit my mark.”

“Sounds nice,” Angel said. “Spending time with your dad like that.”

“Sometimes it was,” Wes answered. His lips moved, an almost smile ghosting over them. “Occasionally one of my father’s colleagues from the Watchers’ Council would accompany us. They would become so intent in their conversation about business matters that they would forget I was there, and I could go poke about at the warren. Our rabbits had such soft fur . . .” Wes stopped abruptly, and replaced the first aid kid in the drawer from which he’d retrieved it.

“Oh, rabbits. We used to eat rabbit, my family, when -- uh, sorry,” Angel offered as Wesley’s eyes went wide.

“Oh no, that’s quite all right.” Wes’ laughter sounded forced. “In fact, my father would often tell me, when he would find me hunkered down and speaking softly to them, that I ought to remember that they were not meant to be my pets.”

“Right,” Angel said. He cleared his throat and attempted to return the conversation to a less sensitive topic. “Sounds like the shooting wasn’t your favorite part.”

“And yet it was required that I learn. So I did.” Wesley looked down, fumbling with something in his hands that Angel couldn’t quite make out. “And on my twelfth birthday, he woke me quite early. Usually there wasn’t much of a fuss on that day, none of the typical nonsense other families . . . at any rate, that year he roused me, told me he had a surprise in store.” Slipping what he had held -- a small card, Angel could now see -- into his pocket, Wesley leaned against the counter. He seemed unsure what to do with his hands, his arms, until he crossed them over his chest. “I remember him saying that he hadn’t thought he would give it to me just yet. I’d not been progressing as quickly in my studies as he would have liked. But in consideration of the day and my age, he’d decided to present me with it nonetheless.”

Angel leaned forward, distantly hearing the leather of the couch creak in response. “What was it?”

“A rifle of my own,” Wes said. “Not the gift I would have chosen, certainly. But that he’d given me anything . . . that pleased me.”

Angel shifted uneasily on the couch. Despite his protestations earlier, the wound was throbbing a little now, itching at the edges of the bandages Wes had applied. But he didn’t want to move too obviously, or worry at the tape and gauze, not if it risked interrupting Wes’ account. 

“Of course we went to those same fields,” Wes went on, his voice soft and lilting. “Alone this time, no companions of Father’s to absorb his attention. I carried my rifle carefully, expecting that we’d undertake the usual target shooting. But . . . no.”

Angel ran his hand over the leather of the couch absently when Wes paused. But then he moved forward as though he was about to stand. “Wes,” he said urgently. “You don’t have to --”

“All the rabbits were released that day,” Wes continued as if Angel hadn’t spoken. His voice had become low. “Mother was terribly impatient when we finally arrived home quite late that evening. I’d delayed supper, you see, because we weren’t to leave the fields until I’d dispatched the lot of them.” 

He turned to face Angel, his eyes bright. Angel said nothing, but he placed his palm on the couch next to him. After a moment, Wes walked over and sat down as if in a daze. They sat side by side as several minutes passed.

“That’s . . . I’m sorry,” Angel said at last. His palm remained resting on the couch, his smallest finger half an inch away from Wes’ thigh. 

“It was so long ago,” Wes said with a slight shake of his head. He took off his glasses and placed them on the side table. “And a rather long answer to your question, I’m afraid.” 

“But it helped, what happened,” Angel said. “Tonight, it helped.”

Somehow Wesley mustered a smile. “Cordelia would not have thought so, before the demon was frozen. At the very end she had become fiercely protective of the babies growing inside of her.”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “Sorry I missed that part.”

“No you’re not,” Wes said, and they exchanged a smile. He turned towards Angel, and his leg brushed against Angel’s hand where it still remained on the couch. “How is it doing?” Wes asked, left hand outstretched hesitantly towards the bandage on Angel’s bare torso. 

“It itches,” Angel said truthfully. 

“Oh, well,” Wes said with a frown, placing his fingers lightly on the spot. “Do you think that perhaps --”

And then Wes wasn’t talking any more, because Angel had tugged him closer, one hand on Wes’ thigh, the other covering Wes’ on the point of impact on Angel’s body.

“Thanks,” Angel said. “For helping. For . . . this.” He pressed their hands together gently against the gauze and tape. “For telling me what you did.”

“Yes,” Wes said, his voice nearly a whisper. “I . . . Angel . . .”

Angel didn’t dwell on which of them moved first. He was too busy running fingers through Wes’ fine soft hair, rubbing the hand on Wes’ thigh back and forth along the sinews and muscles there, and kissing Wes with a teasing light touch. He leaned in closer, murmuring as he heard the slip and slide of their lips and felt the vibration of Wes’ breathed “Oh!” against his mouth. 

They shifted together, and somehow Wes thought to be mindful of Angel’s wound as he ran his hands over Angel’s chest. Another movement, and Angel was able to unbutton Wes’ shirt with one hand while cupping Wes’ cheek with the other, never stopping the press and melding of their mouths even when Wesley gasped slightly. 

Side by side on the couch, they fit together even better than Angel had thought they might. When Angel deepened the kiss, Wes’ lips parted easily for him, and though he made a surprised sound when Angel’s tongue first flicked into his mouth he pulled Angel closer, deepening the entry and sucking on his tongue with a soft cry. 

“Wes,” Angel mouthed against his lips before sliding tongue and teeth down Wesley’s neck. 

What came from Wes’ mouth was incoherent, but the sound, filled with longing, had Angel unfastening Wes’ trousers quickly. Fumbling hands attempted to do the same to his, but Angel caught Wes’ fingers, kissing each of them and licking over the tips as he undid his pants himself. He pushed against Wes, groaning. But then he couldn’t hold back the sharp inhalation when the pain from his injury flared through his body.

“Let me,” Wes whispered, and Angel nodded before claiming those soft lips once again. When Wesley turned them, laying atop Angel and bringing their bodies together in a slow grind, Angel tightened his fingers on Wes’ hips and let his head fall back along the cushioning. 

Wes thrust forward, weight on his forearms on either side of Angel’s shoulders, lifting his lower body only momentarily when Angel frantically pushed his trousers down further. When Angel’s hands rested and then kneaded at the swell of his ass, Wes increased the pace even as a choked sound came from his throat.

Four or five more thrusts, and then Angel drew Wes’s head down for a kiss that turned into a series of kisses. Wes grunted as the movement forced his arms to collapse, making him drape his body over Angel’s as they continued to thrust together.

Then Wes cried “Angel,” the sound muffled by their kisses, the name turning into a low moan as Angel gripped him harder and moved their hips together faster, riding out the shudders that worked through Wes’ body. 

When he came he was silent, but the feel of Wes' lips brushing against his, feather light, helpless, pulled the climax through him so fast his mouth opened in surprise. 

* * *

Some time after, Wesley pulled away, laughing awkwardly when he attempted to stand. But Angel rose with him, silencing the speech that seemed like it would be tremulous and unsure, instead taking Wes’ hand wordlessly and leading him to the shower. 

Later, when Wesley lay in bed beside him, blushing slightly when Angel ran his hand down his side and hip but nonetheless moving closer into the touch, Angel remembered something. “What was it -- the card you were looking at earlier, in the other room?”

Wesley looked at him blankly for a moment, and then blinked. “Oh. That was . . . Cordelia’s obstetrician. After the ultrasound, he gave it to me, the contact information for his office. After all, I was posing as the father.”

Angel didn’t reply, just skimmed his hand up Wes’ thigh and down again. 

“Funny, that,” Wes said softly. “I don’t think . . . I mean, after what I told you about before, how I learned to shoot . . . I imagine, with my experiences, that I would hardly be the best candidate for something like -- a child . . .”

“I think you’d do okay,” Angel said.

After a brief silence, Wesley took a deep breath. “Thank you.” He stroked alongside the new bandage he’d applied to Angel’s body after their shower. “And are you . . .better?”

“Much better,” Angel whispered, leaning forward until their lips met once more.


End file.
